Practical
by Lono
Summary: Losing his powers of deduction is a traumatic thing for Sherlock. Luckily, he has Molly to help find them again.


**_Practical_**

**Rated: **M

**Dedication: **To celebrate various and sundry birthdays and an anniversary, this is for Flavia, dietplainlite, and Whytejigsaw.

Thanks so much to **Broomclosetkink** for betaing this. Your suggestions and edits were invaluable.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing, sadly.

* * *

He swept into her flat unannounced on a Friday afternoon. Molly Hooper was not necessarily offended by his arrival—she was far too used to finding him curled on her sofa, ignoring the prodding paws of her attention-seeking cat, to care. It happened at least once every two weeks.

No, what offended Molly was the fact that Sherlock Holmes only appeared at her flat when he was in the mood for a sulk and desired an audience. At least, that's how she had explained it to him when she'd finally complained about it two months earlier.

"It's like my company is only good for cossetting and petting you like I do the cat," she said, looking rather miserable.

At this, Sherlock merely pointed out a simple truth. "If you truly mind my presence, Molly, the window during which you could have lodged a formal complaint closed _months_ ago."

"Oh?" she asked casually. Too casually. "How many months, would you say?"

He'd huffed at her obtuse line of questioning, but still answered her inquiry. "The first time you found me in here probably would have been the deadline."

Much to his surprise, she hadn't been impressed with his officious pronouncement. She replied in a saccharine tone, "I could probably find a relevant formal complaint now that you can lodge up your—"

"Oh, don't get mad," Sherlock interrupted. Mostly because he suspected she was going to suggest putting said formal complaint somewhere rather uncomfortable on his person. Not to mention impossible, since the complaint was metaphorical.

Commanding Molly not to get mad proved to be ill advised. She yelled for several minutes (it was surprising just how loud she could be when provoked) before pointedly opening the door and staring at him expectantly.

It was unfortunate, especially because it forced him into some of the most miserable minutes of his life. He had to be honest and vulnerable with her. It was _hateful_.

"I apologize for imposing on you, Molly." He didn't want to test her patience, so he stood from the sofa and began gathering his coat, scarf, and gloves as he continued. "I don't just come here because you stroke my hair and back when I'm having a bad day."

"Then why do you come here, Sherlock?" she implored tiredly.

He nearly replied that her sofa was also quite comfortable, but it wouldn't have been true and it very well might have resulted in her kicking his shins. It didn't help that he could see her fighting not to hunch her shoulders in hurt.

He'd never been very good at this.

Looking over to a potted plant that was in woeful need of watering or maybe burning, he sucked in a bracing breath and dove it. "I come here because I find myself craving your company. Because I like you. Quite a lot, actually."

"You like plenty of people, in spite of what you say to the contrary," Molly reminded him. "You don't regularly fling yourself onto their couches."

He shuffled his feet and sighed in frustration. There was nothing for it. "I mean that I am attracted to you," he burst out. "I find your intelligence to be libidinously intriguing, your presence rather soothing, and your appearance aesthetically pleasing. It makes me feel better to be around you because you make me… happy."

And at that, he threw on his outerwear and hurried to the door, feeling a horrific blush suffusing his cheeks. He only stopped when he was level with her, and only then to lean in to give her a quick, awkward peck on the forehead. With a murmured, "Thank you, Molly," he hurried into the night.

He hadn't been able to look her in the eyes for a week after that revelation. But it certainly had stopped her complaining.

Now, two months later, Sherlock wasn't so sure she was still coasting on the high from his admission, if her scrunched expression was any indication. What could she possibly have against his visiting her? Perhaps she was waiting for him to make another romantic gesture.

But he really couldn't expend the energy to worry about it today of all days. His distress was legitimate, and he just didn't think John could be quite so comforting as Molly in this situation. So he'd let himself into her flat with his swiped house key and hurried to his preferred spot without preamble.

Molly, who'd been washing wood stain from her hands at her kitchen sink, squawked at him, but he ignored her.

"Sherlock, could you please knock? I was just about to go shower, and it would have terrified me if I'd heard you bursting in without a word."

He heard rustling as she dried her hands on a stained rag and vaguely wondered what she'd being doing, but not enough to remove his face from where it was pressed against the back rest of the sofa. He sighed gustily. "You would have known it was I coming in. No need to exaggerate, Molly."

"I was trying to be somewhat polite. I'm mostly talking about the lack of privacy."

"Privacy? What for?" he asked, unable to put much inflection in his voice beyond an aggrieved whine.

Molly made a sound that was suspiciously close to growl as she stomped over to the sofa and loomed over him (or as close to looming as a short woman was capable). "What is it this time? Did Mrs. Hudson ask you to clean your flat again? Or did John tell you he couldn't join you on a case because he had to work or spend time with his wife?"

Normally, Sherlock would be insulted by Molly's line of questioning, but he just didn't have it in him to take umbrage today. He merely burrowed away from her glare. And, proving why he felt the affection for her that he did, Molly picked up on it. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her shoulders relax and the annoyed lines on her face smooth out. She nudged the cat away and sat down in his vacated spot.

"What's wrong?" she asked, placing a tentative hand on his upper arm.

Sherlock pressed his face further into the cushion. "There's no use talking about it."

"Tell me anyway."

He tilted his face far enough back to study the weave of the sofa's fabric as he mumbled, "I'm finished."

Molly leaned forward, the end of her ponytail falling over her shoulder and brushing against the back of his neck. "I'm sorry, you said you're finished? What do you mean?"

"I've lost it," he said. He'd raged and fretted, and now all he could do was despair as he admitted his terrible secret.

"You're not making any sense," she prodded, rubbing her hand soothingly on his arm. "What have you lost?"

If he said it out loud, it would make it real; but he felt compelled to tell her. "My deductive reasoning."

Instead of gasping and weeping at the news (not that she'd ever been the type to do such a thing, but still), Molly only blinked at him for several moments. "Your deductive reasoning?" She asked haltingly. "You—Sherlock, you do realize it's not a superpower, right? You can't just lose it based on the position of the moon or any of that rot."

And jut like that, the agitation was back. He might have thanked her for giving him the drive to do something other than languish, but he was too busy struggling up and around her so he could pace furiously back and forth on her area rug.

"It's just gone. I had two cases this week that I was unable to solve. I _should_ have been able to solve them. The Met did handily enough," he sneered. "But I missed crucial hints—glaring, obvious hints—that would have pointed me in the right direction. I just overlooked them completely. You're wrong, Molly. That ability _is _my superpower, and it's gone."

And then Molly had the nerve to do something truly unkind: she laughed.

She sobered immediately after the first titter left her mouth, but it was enough for Sherlock. "I should have known you wouldn't understand. I'll go somewhere else," he mumbled.

Molly rushed off of the sofa, running to place herself between Sherlock and the door. "Don't leave! I'm sorry. It's just… Sherlock, you're so bloody brilliant. Just because you had a bad experience doesn't mean you've lost a single thing." She reached out and stroked the lapel of his Belstaff soothingly. "I only laughed because it would never happen, unless you received some kind of head trauma. Were you hit by a falling boulder anytime in the last week?"

"No," he admitted, but remained unconvinced that she was right.

"Then your reasoning abilities aren't gone. Are you under any sort of stress?"

"I don't get stressed," he sniffed haughtily.

She just quirked an eyebrow at him in response.

He sighed. "I may have had a rather heated argument with Mycroft and Mumm—our mother over supper last Sunday."

Molly's lips twisted in sympathy. "Arguments always throw me off. It doesn't matter how right I think I am. I still let them upset me."

"I'm not saying that's what's tanking my career. I'm just acknowledging that it distracted me momentarily."

Fighting to keep her eyes from rolling (she would have to wake up pretty early in the morning to fool Sherlock), Molly cast about for another suggestion. Finally, she said, "I'll show you. Practice on me."

"Practice what? My deductive reasoning? The data would be falsified, since I already know everything about you," he said, though he was sweeping his gaze over her form as he spoke.

Though she looked a little apprehensive to be inviting his scrutiny, Molly simply replied, "Prove it."

She apparently trusted that he wouldn't bolt out the door, for she returned to the sofa and calmly sat down, folding her hands in her lap and looking at him expectantly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, more for show than anything, because he found he _really_ wanted to prove himself for her. He pulled off his Belstaff and jacket, hanging them on the rack by her door. Returning to where he'd previously stood, he clasped his hands behind his back and frowned down at her.

"Your posture is not completely straight. This indicates that you went to a state school where such things as good carriage were not enforced, but you now try to treat your back well and thus, correct yourself when you become aware of slumping."

She smiled and shrugged slightly. "You know that I never attended public school. Keep going."

Sherlock swept his gaze over her. "You were knock-kneed as a child. They self-corrected, though there is still a slight turn-in on your left knee. Your father elected not put you in braces for it. Judging by the rotation, any doctor would have recommended them. The NHS would have paid for them. You father was trying to spare you from bullying."

He almost felt bad for bringing up Molly's deceased father, and her eyes flashed with momentary grief, but then they cleared again and she nodded for him to continue.

Stepping closer, he studied her clothes. "You have three pairs of denim jeans in that exact style and brand. Growing up in a home where money was a concern, this was a bit of a frivolity for you, but a necessary one because you have difficulties finding untailored clothes to fit your shorter frame, and these were a rare success. This is your worst pair, which is why you're wearing them while you re-stain the wood of your doorframes. The other two pairs, respectively, have worn cuffs on the heels and a button that you had to sew on after catching it on a body slab at the morgue. You _could_ buy another pair of jeans, or several pairs for that matter, but your frugal nature prevents it.

"Cat owners are typically more independent than dog owners. And you are very independent. You don't dislike dogs—I've seen you covered in sheepdog fur on more than one occasion, meaning a friend owns one—but you prefer cats because your career as a pathologist is a demanding one and you felt it would be irresponsible to get something more reliant on your company. Also, this one made you laugh because he's ridiculous," Sherlock added severely, glancing over to where the big tomcat was lying, spread out on his back with his legs extended in four different directions.

"I've seen him make you laugh, too, so you won't fool me, Mr. Holmes," Molly defended, grinning over at the animal. The cat cracked an eye open when he realized they were talking about him, and then shut it again tightly in a vain attempt to ignore them.

Sherlock frowned, thinking he'd been subtler in showing any opinion of Molly's pet, but he then resumed looking at the woman instead of the animal. He shuffled a bit closer to her still, so that his knees nearly brushed hers as he lowered himself to sit beside her.

Reaching forward her caught both of her hands in his, bringing them up to eye-level. "You've several scars on your hands, none newer than a year-old, three older than ten years, and the rest somewhere in between. Most likely from your pathology studies and actual post-mortems. Going by the width of the cuts, I would say the majority of those were from surgical steel scalpels, though this one,"—he swiped the pad of his thumb across a thin scar on hers—"is from an obsidian scalpel. Rare, but ideal for cutting flesh neatly. This was during a live surgery?"

Molly nodded, clearing her throat. "During rotations. I thought they would fail me for nicking myself before the operation had even begun. But the attending surgeon just had me scrub out and observe, because I hadn't even made it into the surgical theater yet."

"Good," Sherlock said, approving of this unnamed surgeon.

Weaving his fingers through hers, and unable to ignore the frisson at the contact, Sherlock licked his lips before continuing. "You keep your fingernails short and unpainted, not because you dislike the look of polish, but again because of your usual practicality. Good thing, too, because you can't be certain painted nails are clean underneath. That wouldn't be ideal in a field where you handle bio-hazardous material regularly."

He pushed the sleeves of her worn sweatshirt up to her elbows, studying the smooth skin of her forearms and feeling her warmth and her muscles shifting under his hands. "You haven't been in direct sunlight for longer than a half-hour in several months. Easy enough in England, but this is more intentional than that. Judging by the number of freckles and moles that you have, you're concerned about skin cancer."

"Runs in the family," Molly answered vaguely, though Sherlock wasn't fooled for a moment. But he chose to ignore it.

He let go of one of her arms, bringing his free hand up to brush loose strands of hair away from around her ear and neck. She shivered noticeably as his fingertips brushed against her skin, and his eyes met and held hers for several beats before he resumed his perusal.

"You've only had your ears pierced once," he said. Unable to resist, he dragged the tip of his index finger under the lobe, flicking it gently. He didn't think he imagined her sudden intake of breath as he brushed that same finger around the shell of her ear. He darted his eyes away, trying to get back to the task at hand. "Pierced not with a spring-loaded gun, but with the more traditional needle. Not professionally, however."

"My friend did it when we were eleven," she explained. "She sterilized a sewing needle with a match and numbed my earlobes with ice cubes."

"Children are idiots," Sherlock admonished.

She shrugged, "We grew out of it."

"Some of them. I haven't met this friend, so I can only partially agree."

"She's not really a friend anymore. She cheated off of me during a test when we were sixteen and then told the teacher that I looked off of her answers," Molly said, frowning a bit at the memory.

"I repeat myself; only some children leave idiocy behind."

He only realized as he finished speaking that he'd curled his hand around the curve of her neck as she spoke, and was slightly stroking her skin. Not wanting to break contact, Sherlock tried to maintain a casual expression as he leaned closer to Molly, sweeping his eyes across her face. He shifted a bit as he felt her breath glancing off of his face.

"One of your eyes is lighter than the other," he noticed.

"What does that mean?" Molly whispered

"Nothing. Just…just your genes' phenotypic expression."

He looked at her the smooth alabaster of her skin and the contrast of her lips, which looks rather pretty and pink in this proximity. Once again, he was getting off track, so he forced himself to continue. "You have a scar just under your bottom lip. It looks like you bit it with a top incisor. Typical of a bicycle accident."

Molly frowned, confusion wrinkling the skin between her eyebrows. "I don't have a scar there."

"Yes, you do," he argued. "It's very, very faint, but it's there."

"I have no memory of getting it. Where is it?"

He pointed to it, but it must have been too vague a gesture, for she raised her hand to prod at a spot several millimeters to the left of the scar. "No, no," he corrected. "Further right." And when she still didn't locate it, "Just there." He gently laid his finger over the mark.

Laying her finger over his, Molly's eyes stayed on Sherlock's. He flicked his gaze back and forth between her dark brown irises and where their fingers rested. Slowly, he wrapped the rest of his fingers around Molly's hand and tugged it away from her mouth.

"Just... there," he repeated lowly as he leaned forward. Gently, he pressed a light kiss to the corner of her mouth and that dubious scar.

Though the gesture was initially sweet, it quickly escalated. Soon, his tongue was sliding against hers in between sucking on her lower lip, dragging his teeth across its plumpness. They would draw back slightly, only to dive in again and again.

He only realized that their hands were still clasped tightly together when he released his hold on her and his fingers had stiffened in the shape of their taut grip. He couldn't say he minded much, not as he wrapped his arms around Molly's warm body and pulled her securely to him.

For her part, Molly wasn't still through the onslaught. She kissed him with equal fervor, and when his arms banded around her, hers did the same, holding him just as tightly.

Finally, though, they broke away, breathing labored. Their arms didn't fall away, however. They just looked at each other quietly, until Molly spoke.

"What else?" she asked, her voice husky.

Sherlock almost felt a stab of hurt, to have his advances so coolly shrugged off in favor of their little deduction game, but then he noticed a slight quirk in her swollen lips and her brightened eyes.

Swallowing hard, he instructed, "Take off your sweatshirt. I need more data."

Molly didn't even bat an eye as she withdrew from his arms and tugged the overly washed, faded material over her head. Her hair came loose as she pulled her head through the neck hole, and as she tossed the top to the side, it cascaded around her shoulders. Sherlock didn't hesitate to delve his fingers into the thick warmth of it.

"You've worn your hair shorter, but not since your time in pathology, where you need to pull it back. Now you just trim it periodically. I rather like it long," he whispered as he tugged on it a little, rubbing his nose against her temple.

Moll only nodded. Sherlock leaned back a little to observe her further. Wearing only a pretty, robin's egg blue bra and her jeans, with her hair all over the place and her lips bee-stung and cheeks a little reddened from his slight stubble, Molly already looked ravished. Her eyes were slightly hooded as she watched him, waiting to see what he would do next.

Sherlock felt his cock, aching, hard and pressing uncomfortably against his trousers, give a slight twitch as he looked over her. His breathing had hardly slowed down, and he sucked in another, greedy lungful of air before he started talking.

"You had an appendectomy when you were… fifteen?" he guessed.

"Thirteen, actually," she murmured, looking a little bewildered that she could even remember such a thing at time like that.

Reaching forward, he skimmed his knuckles across the creases of her soft belly, watching it jerk at the contact. His lips split into a genuine, wide smile as he met Molly's eyes. Her eyes, dark and watchful, stayed steadily on his as he leaned forward, toward the right side of her stomach. He continued to watch her face, obscured slightly by the slopes of her breasts, as he ran his tongue up the two-inch length of the scar. Molly rewarded his efforts by giving a genuine shudder at the contact.

Sherlock jerked himself upright and took her mouth again, kissing her furiously, nipping at her lips a little when he felt her nimble fingers start in on the buttons of his shirt.

Once he'd shrugged out of the material, he leaned down again, to press an open-mouthed kiss to the small, satin bow nestled between her breasts. He stroked his fingers around the band of the bra to the back clasp as he said against her skin, "You don't spend a lot of money on your undergarments. This material is not top-grade silk, but rather more affordable satin. Though you do go in for aesthetics. And," he added as he reached down and popped the button of her jeans open, "you like matching sets, I see. You've always been rather orderly, haven't you, Dr. Hooper?

She only responded by leaning forward and sucking on the beating pulse at his neck. Sherlock's head dropped back and his eyes slid closed as he enjoyed her. All the while, though, he worked on freeing the clasps that held her bra closed. Finally, he managed to unfasten all of them, and the material came loose from its tight hold on Molly's torso. Instead of pulling it away and baring her top half, Sherlock bent forward. His motion dislodged Molly from the homage she was paying his neck (each kiss corresponding with the birthmarks there, he hazily noticed), but he happily reached his goal.

He closed his lips around one of her stiffened nipples, sucking hard and wetly through the coarse satin until Molly's panting breaths sounded, fast and strong, in his ear. He moved to the other side and did the same thing until she started wriggling, working to free herself from the material.

Sherlock pulled back and gleefully watched her. He noted the tiny shiver she gave as the cool air hit her wet nipples and felt rather chuffed for his efforts. But then he had to taste the soap, sweat, and detergent scenting her skin, and his mouth returned to her bared chest. He sucked a mark into the soft flesh above her nipple before he lapped at it with the flat of his tongue and then alternated between sucking and biting her.

All the while, Sherlock's dick throbbed in time with his actions, and he could feel beads of pre-cum escaping and smearing against his pants. It didn't do anything to calm him down when Molly moved her hands from where they'd clenched against his sides to unfasten his belt and open the zipper.

Her hand delved beneath the waistbands of his trousers and pants, and as she fisted her hand around his straining cock, Sherlock felt his vision tunnel temporarily as his hips jerked. He made sound akin to a growl and a moan at the feeling of the blunt head of his cock, made slick with his mounting excitement , sliding against her palm and fingers.

Scrambling to get to her, Sherlock pulled Molly's hand loose, giving her palm a grateful kiss before he set to work untying his shoe laces and shucking them and his socks, trousers, and pants. He looked up to make sure Molly was following suit, and was met with the sight of her standing up from the sofa and bending over to push her jeans and knickers down her legs. After she'd stepped out of them, Sherlock placed his hands on her hips and pulled her over to stand in front of him.

He stopped her when she tried turn and face him. Once she'd stilled, he leaned forward and gave a biting kiss to one side of her bum.

Against her skin, he said, "You don't use lotion. Your skin would taste like it. The humidity, along with the previously mentioned lack of sun exposure, keeps your skin soft and the collagen in it supple. It's why you look younger than your thirty-three years."

This time, Molly didn't even bother responding.

Sherlock tugged her down onto his lap, situating her so that she straddled him backwards. He shuddered as her dripping wet pussy brushed against his cock, but he breathed deeply and fought to ignore it a little while longer, though he could see it bobbing up and down between her legs.

Molly hooked her feet around his ankles, spreading her open slightly in his lap, and Sherlock sank further into the sofa, spreading his knees apart so that hers opened even further. Her head dropped back onto his shoulder and he kissed her cheek, feeling the heat of her aroused flush.

Hooking his chin over her shoulder, he looked down the planes of her body. He could see the wet curls at the juncture of her thighs, exposed to the cool air. Her hips rocked quasi-rhythmically, and Sherlock had to swallow down a groan as she moved against his ever-hardening cock.

Smoothing his hand up and down her torso, from ribs to inguinal ligament, he only let his hand make teasing contact with her wetness. Murmuring into her ear, he asked, "How do you touch yourself, Molly? When you're thinking about me between your legs? Are you rough with yourself, or gentle?" He finally slid just the tip of one finger through her folds; let it rub ever so fleetingly against her swollen clit before resuming his stroking of her belly. She moaned brokenly at the teasing touch. "Do you pretend it's my mouth and tongue on you, or do you imagine that I'm pounding inside you while you finish yourself off?"

"Aren't you supposed to deduce these answers?" she asked around gulps of air.

He gently bit her shoulder at her impatient tone, before he began speaking. "You've been rubbing your hands over your thighs in tight circles since you've been sitting on me. You're mirroring what you'd like me to be doing with _my _fingers_. _So if I did this,"—he slid his middle finger back into the slick heat of her labia and began rubbing it around and around on the tightened nerve bundle there—"then you'd respond well."

He needed no confirmation from Molly that he'd been right, but he still couldn't hold in the grin at her hoarse shout and the way her back arched, trying to press her dripping heat further against his fingers.

"And now you're telling me what pressure you need. Really, you've given away many tells and for that I thank you," he chuckled. He increased the pressure of his finger, as Molly began bucking and sobbing loudly, until she finally stiffened, her legs compellingly strong as they tensed around his.

Out of curiosity, Sherlock slid his fingers away from Molly's clit and delved into the inferno of her entrance. She moaned again, and he reveled in the fluttering of her tight muscles around his hand. Her own hand wrapped around his wrist in desperation, those sensibly short nails of hers biting into his pulse.

Once she'd finally come down from her peak, he withdrew from her, admiring the slick, glistening trail he left on the skin of her thigh where he rested his hand. His cock was still hard and desperate for release, but he was content to watch her breasts and belly rise and fall with each deep breath they pulled in.

After some time, Molly turned her head, rooting a bit for his mouth. He paired his lips to her and let his tongue fuck her mouth the way he wished he could with his dick. Fortunately for him, she seemed to be of a like mind.

Having regained her senses rather quickly, and she reached down between their legs and grasped him. She began stroking his length firmly and altogether too well, if he had any hope of coming inside her. And then she leaned forward and started rocking against him and over him, and the head of his cock bumped repeatedly against her entrance.

His vision did that strange blacking out again, and Sherlock suspected it was actually his eyes rolling back momentarily at the pleasure of her touch.

"Can I… let me inside?" he asked. In fact, he wasn't sure he didn't beg.

Molly nodded sharply and folded her legs up onto the sofa, raising herself onto her knees before she positioned him and sank down onto his hard prick. They moaned at the feeling, as her inner walls caressed every ridge and vein of him. Sherlock leaned forward as she started riding him, agonizingly slow. He pressed his face against the sweaty skin of her back and he felt his cock swell even more with each pull of her strong pelvic muscles.

Soon, all too soon and not nearly soon enough, Molly was riding him with fury, her fingers digging into his where he clasped her breasts. Her mouth hung open in a silent wail, and he wasn't even sure she was breathing. For his part, he knew that with each ebb and flow he was cursing and gasping.

She seemed to be at the precipice but couldn't quite go over, so Sherlock moved his hand away from her right breast and returned it to the tight pearl of her clit. He stroked in furious time with the thrust of her hips. She was almost too wet for his fingertip to find any kind of purchase, to have any sort of satisfying friction, but he continued to rub her in those tight, tiny circles.

It proved more than adequate, and he felt all of her muscles seize around his cock as she came. More wetness gushed from her as she orgasmed, and he felt it dripping over the base of his cock and down his tightening balls.

He was so close. He gritted his teeth at the exquisite agony of Molly and wrapped his arms around her waist, biting into her shoulder again as he torqued his hips, hammering into her until finally, with a shout, his release rushed from him and into her.

Exhausted, sweaty, filthy, and tasting his first grasp of peace in far too long, Sherlock collapsed back against the sofa, keeping Molly's back flush against his chest. Absently, he helped her unfold her legs, lest they cramp. His softening cock eventually slipped out of her, and he felt a strange loss.

But he smiled when he realized that he could probably return to that place again soon.

Molly turned her head and sleepily nuzzled the side of Sherlock's face. He kissed her sweetly in return while wishing vaguely that they could magically move to her bed without having to expend any effort of standing. Not to mention the logistics of just how desperately they now needed a shower.

"See?" she asked.

He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be 'seeing', so he merely _hmm_ed in reply, too tired to ask for clarification.

But Molly, being Molly, read his tone and explained, "You haven't lost any of your powers of deduction. Still there, still brilliant."

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Of course I'm still brilliant. I never doubted _that_. I was worried I'd lost my ability to use that brilliance conductively. I just lost focus for a little while. But I must thank you for helping me find it again."

Molly chuckled, a low sultry sound. "Believe me, Sherlock. The pleasure was all mine."


End file.
